Luck, or Lack Thereof
by ReaperRain
Summary: He had the worst luck... Seridur/Valen Dreth – yes, you read correctly. Written for the Oblivion Random Pairing Challenge. Contains smut of the non-consensual variety and spoilers for the sidequest Order of the Virtuous Blood.


This was written a while ago, but I've only recently remembered that I never posted it here. It obviously doesn't measure up to my multi-chaptered stories (if you want a proper Altmer/Dunmer pairing, go read Anathema), but it's decent enough, I guess. Written for the now sadly dormant Oblivion Random Pairing Challenge over at LJ.

For those who don't recall who either of these two are: I'm sure everyone remembers Valen Dreth, the snide Dunmer in the Imperial Prison at the very start of the game. And Seridur is the head of the vampire-hunting Order of Virtuous Blood, which I assume you've all played through.

**Warnings:** It's not explicit, but regardless, this is smut, lemon, pr0n, whatever you want to call it. As I stated in the summary, it's also non-con, or at least dub-con; if you don't want to read that then just click the back button. Also contains copious amounts of Valen Dreth, so expect swearing and such. Remember, it's rated M for a reason!

* * *

Luck, or Lack Thereof

He had the worst luck.

His first misfortune was landing himself in the Imperial Prison, and even with all the information he'd traded, his sentence was still a lengthy eleven years. But after seething, cursing, and sneering at the guards to pass the time, that sentence was almost up, and he would soon walk free.

Then along came a _second_ misfortune in the form of the prisoner opposite him. Eye-candy, or so he'd thought, but her disdainful glance and cutting words had quickly put him off. Honestly, all he'd offered her was a last horizontal tango before she walked the gallows, and what did he get? Nothing but scorn.

Then to add immense insult to injury, the little snot _escaped_. Why couldn't the Emperor have come through _his_ cell? The fates were laughing at him, surely. Teasing him with the notion of freedom when he had only a few more months to go. He could almost _taste_ all the alcohol he planned to consume, fine food and two whores to share it with. Liberty was a sweet thing indeed.

And then ill luck struck him once more.

He knew something was off. The visitor was simply too _classy_ to be caught dead down here, high and mighty Altmer with his stupid exemplar posture and his stupid upper-class clothing. He drifted down the row of cells at a leisurely pace, chatting with the jailer about this and that in such a way that made Valen's fists clench; they had no idea how graced they were, those simple-minded idiots frolicking outside without a care in the world. Dismissing casual things like clean water, fresh air and warm clothes without realising what it was like to go without. Complaining about the summer heat while he was here in this cold, damp cell without so much as a glimpse of sunlight, staring at a grey wall and trying to remember what worm-free food looked like.

"Oh," the visitor's voice pulled him from his bitterness, and he found himself viewing the man's back, facing the once-occupied cell opposite him, "I thought there was a female prisoner here?"

"She was, ah, _released_, sir."

"Lies," Valen blurted out before he could help himself; insulting the guards wasn't doing him any favours, but fuck it, he'd be clear of this place soon enough, "She escaped. Slippery little thing, they should have kept a closer eye on her. Makes the Imperial Watch look bad, you know."

"_Shut it,_ Dreth," the jailer growled, but he only smirked in reply. But it waned slightly upon seeing the Altmer, specifically the look he was giving him. Thoughtful, but...something else. Something sly and vaguely sinister, and he didn't like it one bit.

It unnerved him, but he wasn't one to shy away, so he put on his best sneer and said: "What are you looking at, _High_ Elf? Don't you have some elitism to indulge in?"

"_Dreth-_"

"It's quite alright," the mer interrupted calmly, "Actually...may I request some time alone with him? Nothing dodgy, of course!" he hastened to add at the wary look he received from both jailer and prisoner, "I'd simply like to talk to him. It's for a project of mine, you see. I'm trying to understand the criminal mindset."

The guard shook his head, "I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to leave visitors unattended. For both his and your safety."

"Oh, I'll be fine. I simply wish to talk. After all, if we could find out what motivates a crime, we would be able to intervene before they ended up in prison. Prevention is better than the cure, no?" he gave a warm smile, but there was something _odd_ about it, and Dreth subconsciously took a step back, "You'd be doing the world a great favour."

_Fuck_, that was charm magic if Valen had ever felt it. He could just make out the faint green glow around the spelled guard, but it was obvious more from the sudden relaxation of his posture, the smile on his face like he'd known this strange man for years. And Valen knew right then that he was, for lack of a better word, screwed.

"Sure thing. I'll come back in an hour or two," the jailer spoke, walking back towards the door, "Call me if you need anything."

_No, no, no... _They both watched him go, Dreth with a paling face and growing sense of dread, the Altmer with a calm, neutral expression. At least until the door was closed and they were alone, at which point he turned and gave Valen a smile that left no doubt that he had not come for a chat.

He took another step back; "I don't know what you want, but stay _the hell away_, fetcher."

"Now now, no need for that kind of language," the other Elf chided lightly, drawing nearer with that odd, pragmatic smile, "I only want to talk."

"The hell you do. Stay back, whoever you are-"

"Seridur," the Altmer said softly, curling his long, elegant fingers around the grimy metal bars of the door, "Man of leisure. Well-respected in the community," _and likely to go overlooked by the guards,_ is what he meant, "And you are...?"

"I'm not telling you a _thing_, you filth. Get out of here before my fist meets your jaw."

"'Dreth', the jailer said," Seridur continued thoughtfully, ignoring the threat, "Forgive me, I never inquired your full name. I didn't come down here for you, you see – for the girl, but I suppose you'll have to do in her place."

"Do for what?" he was starting to panic now, breaths more frantic, heart rate picking up, and he could've sworn he saw something glimmer in Seridur's eyes, "Do for what? Get away! I'll call the guards!"

"And they would come running...for someone else, perhaps," he was reminded with a soft, sinister laugh, "Not only are you a criminal, but you're decidedly unpopular with your jailers. I think it's safe to say you'll go ignored."

"You – you-" he found himself rambling, mostly to reassure himself that, while the cell was intended to protect others from _him_, it also worked vice versa: "You can't get in. The guard didn't give you a key. _You can't get in._"

"Really now?" and even in the low, flickering torchlight, he could clearly make out the lockpick between Seridur's finger and thumb. He gasped, began looking desperately for a weapon as the High Elf unhurriedly worked on his cell door. Sure, seeing his cell unlocked had haunted his dreams for years, but for once he wanted that door to stay _closed_, because he knew with every screaming fibre of his being that this man was going to hurt him.

The door swung open. And in a desperate attempt he tried to run past, because even if he was thrown back in jail or even _attacked_ by the guards, it was better than being near this unknown mer with his shadowed eyes and his not-quite-right smile and his unspoken promise of pain. But of course he failed, because the doorway was too narrow, because he was withered and weak from eleven years imprisoned, because luck was never on his side – because a _million_ things, but currently all that mattered was that Seridur caught him, and sent him toppling to the ground with far more strength than an Altmer should have possessed.

He tried to scramble back, even though there was nowhere to run, but his pursuer crossed the room in three brisk strides. Hands on his shoulders pushed him down and kept him pinned, his struggles useless – because he used his _wits_ not his brawn to fight, but words wouldn't save him now. But still he thrashed and threw punches and snarled a stream of Dunmeri curses, because he was _not_ going to lie there and take it like a prison bitch. The word _rape_ flashed through his mind over and over, but it suddenly occurred to him that Seridur wasn't trying to wrench his tightly-clamped legs apart, or rip the threadbare material of his pants. He was instead preoccupied with forcing the Dark Elf's head to one side, as if trying to...expose his throat?

"Will you-" he spoke through gritted teeth, his earlier calm all but dissolved in favour of a frantic desperation, a kind of longing that wasn't sexual, but something else, "Just – hold – _still!_"

It was then that it became apparent: the oddly pale tone of the mer's skin, the slight sunken-ness of his cheeks, the utter _hunger_ in his eyes which he could have sworn were glowing faintly in the absence of light...

Then he saw the fangs and he knew _precisely_ what Seridur wanted him for.

"Vampire!" he shouted out as loud as his hoarse, largely disused voice would carry, "Guards! Help me! _Vampire!_"

"_Quiet-_" and a hand was clamped over his mouth, a predator sneer that didn't belong to the cool, composed gentleman of earlier, "Do you honestly think anyone will come for you? Anyone will believe your words? You can tell them if you'd like, after I'm gone. I can assure you, you'll be dismissed as a liar."

_After I'm gone..._ That suggested he didn't actually plan to _kill_ Valen. A small relief, but he was not about to just give up. He was an ex-assassin, a vicious criminal, a murderer. He was the _hunter_, not the prey, and he was not going to let himself be _fed upon_ by a coffin-dwelling, sunlight-dodging _parasite_.

So he struggled like a chained lunatic, screaming despite going unheard, and surprising even Seridur with his determination. He wasn't quite the contract killer he used to be, but he could still throw a punch, and- on second thought, maybe running was the more sensible option, he hadn't realised _just_ how pointed those teeth were. Plan A summarily dismissed, he pushed Seridur off with what must have been pure adrenaline, staggered to his feet and made a mad dash for the open door-

-But was again intercepted, arms wrapping around his slim waist, one decidedly close to his groin; he might've even enjoyed that, had the holder been female and not trying to _eat _him. He fought again – because he'd been doing nothing but fighting for the past ten minutes – but one hand came up to grip his jaw in a decidedly vice-like way, pulling his head to one side so brutally a jolt of pain shot through his neck, and then-

Oh _fuck_.

He wasn't sure if it was shock or some sort of supernatural vampire paralysis, but he was quite aware of any lack of movement on his part, standing stock still with a complete stranger pressed into his back, fangs in his throat. At some point his vision wavered from the blood loss, knees trembling with the threat to give way, but the arm around his waist prevented him from falling forwards, so he leaned back instead, shifting his rather meagre weight onto the other mer.

And he could _feel_ him, firm muscle through the sumptuous fabric of his clothes, one hand no longer clenching but merely touching his jaw while the other hovered somewhere near his thigh. What with the lips and teeth at his neck, the warmth of their close proximity and the frankly _pleasured_ sounds the vampire was making, Valen decided that this was far too similar to sex than he was at all comfortable with.

When he got the dizzying feeling that usually preceded unconsciousness, he figured he was going to die. Fighting Seridur had only served to make him irritably hungry, and in his frenzied satiation he had forgotten Dreth only had so much blood. But just when he had absolutely convinced himself that this was the case, and started contemplating who to blame for his miserable, rotten luck, Seridur pulled back with a sound only describable as a contented moan. Valen could feel the leftover rivulets of blood trickling down his neck, warm and wet – then the warmer, wetter sensation of a tongue licking it away. He shuddered in a mix of both disgust and, rather shamefully, pleasure, because all the pious temples in the world couldn't hide the sexual, sinful nature of what had just taken place.

"See now," Seridur purred – fucking _purred_ – in his ear, sounding smug and satisfied and blatantly seductive, "Was that so bad?"

Valen gritted his teeth, and snarled out in a voice that was far, _far_ weaker than he would have liked: "Fetching vampire! Get your filthy hands off me." It might have still passed for threatening, had he not been utterly relying on the taller mer to stay upright.

"Filthy? _You're_ the one coated in grime," was the bemused reply, "And if you want me to let you go...well, I could just toss you to the floor and let the rats gnaw on you for a while."

He closed his eyes, waiting for just that. It wasn't like it would be a new experience, since he was routinely shoved to the floor and told he belonged there by the prison guards. However, the hand that had been at his jaw became the hand that supported the underside of his legs as the High Elf stooped down and promptly swept him upwards into his arms.

He struggled, of course – not simply because he assumed Seridur planned to _throw_ him, but at the sheer humiliation of being lifted by another man, especially with such little effort, "Get off me! Get _off_, maggot-ridden s'wit!"

"Language," Seridur admonished lightly for the second time that night, "Rather impolite to hurl insults at the person trying to help you out, you know."

"Rather impolite to damn well _feed_ on someone against their will, but it didn't stop you. Off, _off!_"

He got his wish, surprisingly, when he was laid down on his bedroll – his pitiful, lice-ridden excuse for a bedroll, but it was still better than the dirt floor, which he had expected to be face-down in by now. Seridur was still leaning over him – and, now that he could see the Altmer from the front, the difference feeding made to a vampire's appearance became apparent. His face was no longer gaunt, his eyes no longer glimmering in the dark, and his skin no longer pale, but practically radiant with life. He looked, in fact, as far removed from a vampire as it was possible to be.

He was also, Dreth noticed, smirking at something, but he didn't know what.

"Against your will, yes. But you did stay rather still throughout the whole thing. In fact, there's quite a bit of evidence to suggest you even enjoyed it."

"Evid-" then he glanced down, saw precisely what Seridur was talking about, and made a sound somewhere between 'angry' and 'mortified'; "_Fetcher!_ Get away from me! Guards!"

"You really want the guards to find you in this state?" Seridur questioned, smirk widening when Valen suddenly shut up, "I'm sure the jailer would be happy to..._assist_ you with your problem. He looked the type. Whereas I..."

Dreth froze, not liking that last sentence one bit, "Whereas you what?"

"Am in a good mood. And since you're largely responsible for that, it's only fair to repay you," those long, deft fingers drifted very deliberately near his crotch, and Valen realised what he was suggesting.

"Don't," he warned, "You _dare_- mmph!" and just like earlier he was held in place, claimed without his consent, the Altmer's lips on his own. Seridur did not ask but _took_; just a kiss, but it was still forced and brutal and lustful and damn it all, he was enjoying it. He didn't _want_ to enjoy it, fought against the pleasure with a raging, ragged denial, but he could feel himself growing harder even though the Elf wasn't actually groping anything. It wasn't that Seridur was hideous or repulsive even with his vampirism, but he was _male_, and males didn't _do_ this kind of thing, not to each other.

He tried pushing him away. He _had_ to, it was his only reassurance that he took no pleasure in it. But weak from the blood loss, his punches were feeble, and he ended up merely grasping the front of Seridur's shirt instead. The velvet was soft under his fingers, ornate details of lace and braid reminding him of the luxury outside the prison walls. Seridur was the opulence that came with liberty, styled hair and expensive cologne that he could still detect even with his cell's stench of mould and mire. It was again like the fates were teasing him, showing him the very height of what he could expect once he had his freedom. Tragically, he would most likely never _afford_ such splendour, unless he followed the money back into a life of crime, and then he would no doubt land himself back in jail.

At least this way, he had a taste of the high life, if indirectly. So he ran his hands over the fine blue silk and velvet, breathed in the scent of wealth and only dimly recalled that he had, until very recently, been fighting this man off for dear life. Feeling lean muscle instead of soft curves still half-repelled him, but half-enthralled him as well, male lips together and male tongues intertwining and you normally had to _pay_ for something this unashamedly erotic. He'd never felt harder, hotter, heart hammering in his chest, skin on fire, too much, too much-

There was a loud whimper, followed by a horrified purple blush that coloured his whole face as he realised what had just happened. And, as he glanced down, his pants were still very much on. Seridur hadn't touched him at all.

"My my," Valen decided right then that he _hated_ that tone, the utter smugness of it, "Sexual frustration much? But I suppose after however many years in here..." he was given a look that said _shut up_, and decided not to pursue the subject, "Now then, that settles the score, does it not?"

"You're-" he cringed at the sound of his own voice, so weak and pathetic, "You're going to leave me like this?"

"Why of course. I've repaid you, just like I said I would," Seridur got to his feet, and calmly as you please, walked back towards the cell door, "Though perhaps...next time I shall bring you an actual gift."

_Next time-?_

"A pleasure talking with you, Mr. Dreth," he closed the door, fiddled with the lock; re-adjusting it, Valen realised as he heard the tumblers clink back down one by one, "I'll take my leave of you. You should get some sleep, you know – you look _exhausted_."

An outright tsunami of Dark Elf curses followed in his wake, some no longer in use, some entirely made up on the spot. Seridur gave no reply, but Valen could hear the mer's laughter all the way down the hall.

He had the _worst_ luck.

* * *

If you liked the story, perhaps you'd like to read the sequel...? _Lucky For Some_ continues Seridur's POV as he re-visits Valen, and there's even a second chapter of Seridur/Cylben Dolovas – his Dunmer bodyguard.


End file.
